Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alec
I don’t know what the hell happened last night.
It’s like my body was hijacked by the same idiot part of me that can’t say no to the sunbeam who moved in next door—and her kid, who interrogates me like I’m a suspect in a case no one told me I was part of.
So, of course, I stayed while she cried.
What was I supposed to do—walk out and pretend I didn’t hear her fall apart right there in my arms?
At some point, she drifted off against me.
I didn’t even notice at first. Her fingers loosened on my shirt, her breath easing into this soft, uneven rhythm that hit somewhere I’ve avoided looking for years.
I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve made space.
Instead, I sat there like a damn statue because I didn’t want her to jolt awake, alone and scared.
I eased her onto the bed once I was sure she wouldn’t stir, pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, brushing her hair back without thinking. I lingered longer than anyone with a functioning brain would’ve.
And yeah—of course I wanted to kiss her goodnight.
Of course I wanted to sit beside her until morning just to make sure that all the memories that hurt her didn’t come back.
Thankfully I had enough common sense left to walk away before I did anything stupid.
After that, I moved around her apartment in complete autopilot—rinsed the dishes, shut the balcony door she always forgets about, checked the lock she never uses.
I went to change into a dry shirt and then circled back to her place to check that everything was still fine.
Then I told myself I’d head out once I made sure she was still asleep.
And I just . . . couldn’t leave.
It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t restraint. It was this bone-deep pull to stay close enough that if she woke up needing anything—even a glass of water or a voice in the quiet—I’d be there before she had to ask.
By the time I collapsed on her couch, it felt like the night had swallowed hours that hadn’t existed five minutes earlier.
And yeah—obviously I ended up sleeping on that torture device, because my common sense isn’t completely fucking gone.
The couch, by the way, was designed by sadists. Whoever built it hates human spines. Pure medieval torture. I’m pretty sure I’ve developed sciatica overnight. Or a slipped disc. Possibly both. Every muscle in my back is staging a mutiny. But none of that is the worst part.
No, the worst part is the miniature version of Mara standing two inches from my face, staring at me with eyes too alert for this hour.
The moment I crack my eyes open, she gasps.
“Oh, good, you’re alive.”
I blink. “Barely.”
She tilts her head. “Why are you sleeping on the couch? Did you break your bed? Did Mom banish you? Did you do something wrong? Did you fight? Did you get sent to time-out? Can grown-ups get sent to timeout? Did you snore too loudly? Do you snore?”
Each question hits me like rapid-fire pellets.
“This should be illegal,” I croak.
“What should?”
“Talking that fast before sunrise.”
“It’s seven-thirty,” she announces proudly. “That’s when Mom allows me to come out of my room, not before.”
“You’re awake before seven-thirty?”
“Shh, it’s a secret. She claims it’s her time.” Mila rolls her eyes and climbs onto the armchair. “Mom usually wakes up early. Why are you awake before her?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Back pain. Life. Regret.”
She nods very seriously. “Makes sense.”
“It does not,” I grumble.
She nudges the throw pillow closer to me like she’s offering first aid. “Did you sleep here because Mom was opening her boxes and got the allergies?”
“She has allergies?” I frown because I’m not sure what to do with that information.
She shrugs. “I’ve got them for dust mites and maybe she does too because that first time she went through the boxes she had red eyes. I noticed but she thinks I was asleep.”
“Well, I don’t know about allergies but I did help her with her boxes.”
“So, you’re staying?” she asks, giving me a suspicious look.
“Umm—”
“Mom says staying is important when people are sick.” Mila narrows her eyes. “Are you . . . staying?”
I choke on air. “What? No. I mean—yes? Not like that. I mean, I stayed yesterday, not—okay, you’re eight, this is unfair.”
“I’m eight and three-quarters,” she corrects as if that three-quarters makes a world of difference.
“Even worse.”
She leans in. “Do you like my mom?”
I nearly fall off the couch.
“Do I—why would you—Mila—this is—” I rub both hands over my face. “It’s too early for this conversation.”
“So you do,” she says, delighted.
“I do what?” The words scrape out of me. This feels like a trap, and I’m walking straight into it. And the worst part? She knows it.
If I had any sense, I would’ve escaped last night—right after I got Mara into bed, right after her fingers went slack against my shirt, right after her breath softened and she leaned into me like she trusted me without meaning to.
I should’ve left, but here we are because I lingered. Yep. I lingered like an idiot.
I stood there longer than necessary, staring at the curve of her cheek on the pillow and wondering—just for a second—what it would feel like to bend down and kiss her goodnight.
It was a stupid thought. A dangerous one too. One I shouldn’t have let in at all.
Fuck, I’m doomed if I don’t escape somewhere tropical and stay there for an entire year.
“You like Mom?” she examines me. “You know, someday I’m going to leave for college and she’ll be by herself. It’d be nice if someone looked out for her.”
I’m speechless.
I glare at her. She grins. She absolutely has Mara’s chaotic energy—minus the filters, plus an alarming amount of detective skills.
“Where is your mother?” I demand.
“In bed,” Mila says. “Probably still sleeping, which is uncharacteristic of her.”
“Do you know what the word ‘uncharacteristic’ means?” I need to ask because her vocabulary is better than Dexter’s and that man is almost forty.
She looks at me insulted. “Of course I do. I don’t use words I don’t know.”
“I guess you need breakfast,” I suggest because maybe it’d be good for Mara to rest a little more than usual.
“Probably. I don’t think they have room service in this place.”
“You used a lot of room service?” I ask
She sighs like she’s disappointed in me already. “Nope, that’s silly—room service is overpriced food. Mom always said we couldn’t waste money on that. How about you?”
“Do I like overpriced food?” I ask.
“No,” she huffs. “Did you order room service a lot in hotels?”
I scrub my face because I swear this kid has blown through an entire lifetime quota of questions before eight in the morning. Ten years’ worth. Maybe twenty.
And the ridiculous thing?
I don’t hate it. She’s loud, yes. Relentless, absolutely. But she also has this brightness to her, this nonstop chatter that pushes against that dark corner in my head I usually keep sealed off. It’s like she refuses to let the room stay gloomy for more than a second—like her mom.
Without answering, I head for the kitchen and open cabinets like I’m searching for buried treasure that absolutely doesn’t exist. Nothing. Not even cereal. How does Mara live like this?
Of course the solution is to take breakfast to my place.
I leave a note on the counter:
The umbrella gremlin is with me across the hall. I will return her fed, unless you come over to have breakfast with us. The door’s unlocked.
AH
That last part almost kills me, but if I have her kid, Mara needs access without delay.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I ask, instantly regretting it.
Mila’s face lights up the way a switch flips on stage. Her eyes widen with that dangerous spark that says, I’m about to ruin your entire morning and enjoy every second of it.
“Pancakes,” she announces.
“Okay—”
“With waffles.”
“That’s—”
“And almond spread.”
“Mila—”
“And fluffy eggs.”
I blink at her.
She beams, swinging her legs like she just placed her order at a Michelin-star restaurant.
I should be annoyed, but there’s something about her small confidence, the way she assumes I’ll figure it out, that hits somewhere deep. Like she expects me to manage it. Like she thinks I can.
I sigh. “You’re going to eat all that?”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “But you asked.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
She pats my arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll help. I can stir things. And give opinions.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “We’ll have pancakes then.”
But when she slips her hand into mine as we head out the door—small, certain, trusting—I don’t pull away, realizing she’s not as scary as I thought the first time I saw her.